Moonlight
by Crowsnight66
Summary: "To love a child of the fae is to love misery and masochism." I think of the words my mother once told me. But Francis doesn't seem to care, and really, neither do I. FrUK.


**Warning: This story is rated T for suggestive/mildly sexual content, shounen-ai/yaoi, and implied prostitution.**

 **Note: This story was written based on a writing prompt I found on Pinterest.**

" _ **Every so often, a dream catcher must be 'emptied' of the nightmares is has caught. Who does it and what do they see?"**_

 **Another note: Guys, I'm sorry that I didn't post this on Monday (or was it Tuesday?) like I did on AO3, but FF . NET was giving me trouble and wouldn't let me add any document to my doc manager. So! Late, but here you go!**

 _ **Moonlight**_

" _A dream is a wish your heart makes."_

― _Kimberley Locke_

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

The invisible world is much more colorful and friendly than the human world. I hold this as truth, as do most of the fae. Of course, our jobs are also less stressful than human jobs. Usually.

That is, unless you're a dream catcher.

Well, I'm not the dream catcher itself, but I have to empty the nightmares from it every now and then. I'm assigned to a young man named Francis Bonnefoy, and his dream catcher works rather well. But a few nightmares slip through sometimes. It's always hard, walking through his mind to catch them myself when the dream catcher doesn't execute its job correctly.

Certainly a sad man Francis Bonnefoy is.

And…well, it's not all my fault. Alfred does it, too, with his assigned person. Dream walking is one of those gifts of the fae and…and….

Okay, fine, I don't like to see people suffer.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

It was a bad night. I can see that much when Francis enters his apartment.

He goes directly to the shower. In the bathroom, I sit on the doorknob, watching as he lets his shoulder-length, blonde hair loose from its hair tie so that the tips can curl at his neck freely. He rubs his jaw a few times before he brushes his teeth viciously from much longer than I would think it necessary, and I notice then that his hands are shaking the slightest bit. But before I can determine the cause, he strips out of his clothing―a long overcoat and jeans, no underwear or shirt―and hops into the shower.

It's another two hours before Francis goes to bed. Whenever he's home, it seems like all he does is sleep and study or other college-related things.

I sit on the edge of the dream catcher that dangles above the headboard from a pushpin in the wall. Francis lays on his side, holding a pillow to his chest as he slips into sleep, and when I'm sure that he has entered a dream state, I follow.

Francis always dreams of waterways. In this particular place, the forest is thick and dark, but there's a waterfall with small pool in it that becomes a creek. The water glows, dancing with blue and purple, and the grass lights up under my feet as I walk closer to the pool, where Francis is. He's naked, as he often is in his dreams, with his hair parted and tucked delicately over each shoulder, and when he sees me approaching, he smiles. It's genuine and easy, so unlike the seductive smirk and smoldering gaze he wears at work, when low lights make the sweat on his body sparkle.

"I was hoping to see you tonight," he says. Then he turns his bright, blue eyes to the water and gestures to the place beside him. "Have a seat, please."

As I sink into the warm water, I say, "You tell me as much every night. I might begin to think that you fancy me."

"It's my dreamland, is it not? Surely you're a figment of my imagination, but very beautiful and good company. Why should I not fancy you?" Francis glances at me, still with that smile.

"All things considered, I would think your profession makes fancying someone rare." I trail my fingers over the water's surface, feeling the slight tension and gliding my palm over it. It's odd, being so large. At the moment, I am Francis's height, though smaller in frame, but in the waking world, I would be able to sit in his hand.

Francis shakes his head before he leans back against the stone edge of the pool, resting his head down flat against the smooth rock. "It's business, separate from the rest of my life. And besides that, it's only until I'm out of college. Then I can get a better job."

"Still, isn't it difficult to have a relationship with someone when you…?" I'm not good with words sometimes, especially in areas where I'm inexperienced.

"Sell my body?" Francis finishes. He says it flippantly, but his eyes lose their spark, that warm and mirth that resides in his dreams, as he fixes his gaze on the endless trees and sky above.

I nod slowly.

"Well, you aren't 'someone'." Francis exhales, closing his eyes. "So long as you aren't real, I don't have to worry about…everything else. Not in my dreams. And I never remember it when I wake, so it's harmless, yes?"

" _To love a child of the fae is to love misery and masochism."_ I think of the words my mother once told me.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

"You look rough, dude," Alfred says, his voice sounding before he's fully materialized in front of me. Then he looks down at the book under him. "Are you reading about―" He tilts his head to see the words more clearly. "―how to make flowers out of icing?"

I scoff. "Hardly."

"Then why are you staring at the book?"

"Because I can't sleep," I mutter. Then I look up at him as he flutters over the pages. "And what of you? Shouldn't you be asleep, too?"

He shrugs and plops down in the crease of the book. "Ivan's all worked up about school and stuff. Doesn't know what he's going to do after graduation." He shrugs again. "It's hard to sleep when he's going through so much, you know? Now that his parents are divorced, his older sister is moving out, and the younger one is just clinging to him constantly." After a long moment, Alfred looks down at his feet, stretched out in front of him, and sighs. "I can tell him anything I want, but he never remembers in the morning. Kind of defeats the purpose."

I shake my head. "Isn't it enough that he's happy in his sleep at least? Even if he doesn't remember?"

"I guess." A pause. "Just wish I could do more than scare off the nightmares."

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

"What's your name?" Francis asks.

We're in a field of grass. Just grass. But it's soft like sea foam and cotton, and I feel myself drifting due to the past daylights of no sleep.

"Arthur," I reply after a minute, my eyes desperately trying to roll back in my head so that my lids will close.

Francis chuckles, though I don't know why. "Beautiful."

"Hm…my mother enjoys British history."

"Oh, I didn't mean the name." Another chuckle when I furrow my brow at him. "I meant you when you're sleepy. Though the eyebrows do detract from your face sometimes."

"Shut up," I grumble, too tired to think of anything better. My eyes eventually remain closed when I blink.

When a hand finds the side of neck in a light caress, I flinch, partly from surprise and partly because…well, fae are ticklish, too.

"Fairytale."

"What?"

A warm body presses against my side, and curling hair brushes my shoulder as weight settles there. I can feel his breaths skating across my skin. "Meeting someone like you in my dreams. It's like a fairytale."

"Someone…like me?" My mind lags.

"A prince charming."

I snort. "And you're Cinderella?"

"Who says two princes can't be together?" Francis shifts slightly, trailing his hand from my neck to my side. I find the cuddling rather pleasant; it leaves a fluttering feeling in my chest.

Then I exhale slowly. "Only in your dreams."

"Dreamland and the waking world are two sides of the same coin, yes? Why can't this be my reality? When I am awake, why can't that be my imagination?"

His words lull me to sleep. And when I awake, I'm sitting on the dream catcher.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

The moon in Francis's dreamland is huge. If the night sky were a garden and the stars were seeds, the moon would be a melon.

Tonight, Francis lies on smooth pebbles that are amazingly comfortable to lie on, like a water bed. And there's actual water, too, shallow enough that it just laps at Francis's sides.

He smiles up at me as his hands massage the base of my wings―odd that he never asks about them, but I couldn't care less at the moment. Instead, I focus on trailing my lips down his jaw. It feels like the water is warming up like our bodies, and I scoop some of it onto Francis's stomach, running my hands along his sides and stomach.

"Arthur…mh, wait."

I stop, pulling away from his neck and removing my hands.

With a little frown, Francis looks back and forth between my hands―now supporting my weight, placed on either side of his head―and mumbles, "You didn't have to be _that_ thorough."

"Make up your mind already."

With a soft smile, he stretches a bit before his hands move down from my shoulder blades, down until they rest on the small of my back, warm and waiting. "Are you a virgin?" He brings one hand back up to cup my cheek, his eyes reflecting the moonlight like mirrors. "I mean…if you want to wait, we can."

I stare at him. "You keep treating me like I'm real."

"You are real," he replies, and his eyes glance to the side. "You are…to me."

"I…yeah, I'm a virgin." For three hundred years. Fae don't have sex all that often, and I never found someone special enough that I wanted to be with them like that. At least, not a fairy.

"Do you want to wait?"

"Not really. I-I mean…it's your dream." I pause. "Do you really want to have sex? After having to…do it all day?"

Francis pulls away so that he can prop himself up on one elbow, the other hand dragging me down against him. "Sex and making love are different, Arthur." He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. "I'll show you the difference, if you want me to."

I nod slowly.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

The next morning, Francis wakes up, and…not only is his underwear wet, he remembers his dream. In vivid detail. And he frowns, confused.

But before he can think too much on it, there's a light knock on his door.

Pulling on his robe, Francis runs his hand through his hair, looking at the clock on his nightstand. What could someone want at eight in the morning? On Sunday? He mutters about annoyances under his breath as he looks through the peephole.

Green eyes. Blonde hair. No wings.

He opens the door. " _Arthur_?"

The man tilts his head. "How do you know my name?"

 _This can't be the same man in my dream,_ Francis tells himself. _No more wine before bed._ "Lucky guess. Do you need something?"

"Uh, actually…I don't know." The blonde man glances down the hall in both directions before he looks back at Francis. "But…are you Francis Bonnefoy?"

"Yes…."

"I just, uh…I remember your name. Weird dream. Last night." Arthur's cheeks redden. "And we live in the same apartment building…so…."

Francis raises an eyebrow.

"Actually, never mind." Arthur quickly shakes his head. "Sorry, I…have work, or something."

"Wait."

Arthur pauses, ready to walk away.

"I had a dream, too." Francis smiles, and Arthur swears that he sees moonlight in those eyes. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea? I have both."

Arthur nods slowly. "Tea…would be nice."

As Arthur walks past him and into his apartment, Francis swears he sees the glimmer of wings on the man's back.


End file.
